The Galley Read online

  I also became aware of another sound. Somebody was masturbating on the other side of the bilge. How he found the energy for that is a mystery, for I had not had a single sexual thought since my imprisonment began.

  There was also a new smell in the bilge. Somebody had become seasick and the odor of vomit was very strong. For the next two weeks this odor would be a constant in our sleeping quarters, as most of the slaves had no sea experience at all.

  I also noticed something else: the feel of the ship under sail. The giant sails were unfurled overhead and Antonia was really moving. By the feel of her she was moving as fast as any would dare even on a clear night.

  I noticed my nearest number was still awake and commented on this. “I will say one thing for that Captain,” I remarked, “He sure knows how to handle a ship!” My comrade looked at me sarcastically and asked.

  “How would you know?”

  “By the feel of her,” I replied, “He has got that lateen sail up, can you feel it singing to us?”

  “I have no idea what you are talking about.” he answered. I decided to change the subject.

  “What is your name?” I asked him.

  “Dead men do not have names.” he answered.

  “We are not dead yet!” I said.

  “Sooner or later, it is only a matter of time.” he replied.

  “You have lasted two years.” I said.

  “I told you,” he answered, “I got lucky.”

  “I do not believe in luck!” I replied, trying to show a little self-confidence. He was not fooled.

  “You meant to get caught with the Vestals?” he asked, dryly. A tired voice came from the darkness.

  “Hey, we are trying to sleep!”

  So much for conversation. 53 looked at me and whispered: “Just wait until the speed trials. You will see what I mean.”

  Shortly after that, hard deck or not, I fell asleep. I do not remember it. Galley slaves do not sleep in the usual sense. The labor is so hard and the fear so constant, that body and mind are worn out all the time. One does not so much go to sleep and wake up. It is more like passing out and coming to.

  When I opened my eyes it was daylight outside and the sunlight illuminated the bilge well enough to see everything around me. I became of aware of two sensations. A ravenous appetite and the urge to urinate.

  I called for the bucket and it was passed to me the offerings left by many of my fellows was pink. I tried to add my share and was struck by a sharp pain at first. Then it finally came with a burning sensation, which diminished in a few seconds. I was relieved to see that my offering was a cloudy yellow color. I felt much better overall and this lifted my spirits briefly.

  The African was still asleep and I looked at the other men, who spoke in soft murmurs among themselves. The most interesting of these was a conversation that was going on between the Greek and the yellow man from the Far East, whose number was 93. He had noticed the Greek’s scratchings on the deck and was quite interested in them.

  As I said before, privacy is a forgotten luxury among galley slaves and I eavesdropped on the conversation. They were quite unaware of me anyway. As this conversation turned out to be the beginning of something which would profoundly affect the events of my story, I will try to convey as much of it as I understood.

  “I do not know Greek numbers,” the Chinese said, “But this looks like equations to me.” The Greek was pleasantly surprised by this comment. I looked at them and they did not make any sense to me at all.

  “That is correct,” he said, “It is a new kind of mathematics I have developed.” The Chinese looked at it sideways and commented.

  “It reminds me of calculus.”

  The Greek looked at him surprised again, his eyes widened. “Calculus?” he asked. “That is a good name for it. Where did you learn about it?”

  “In my home town of Luoyang,” 93 answered, “I studied at the school under the Master Shongai, until it was burned by the Emperor.”

  “Nero?” asked the Greek.

  The yellow man laughed, “No. Wudi Han, Emperor of China.” The Greek nodded.

  “What do these symbols mean?” asked the Chinese.

  “It is a physical equation,” the Greek said, “I built something that incinerated almost an entire town.”

  “It exploded?” 93 asked.

  “I thought so at first,” said Number 17, “But now, I am not so sure. I think it imploded…”

  “Impossible!” the Chinese retorted.

  The Greek raised a finger. “Not impossible!” he said, as he began to draw a circular diagram on the deck. “This is the core…” he said pointing at the center. He then drew other symbols I did not understand and began to describe chemicals and metals that made no sense to me at all. The Chinese understood everything he said and his eyes widened. Finally he commented.

  “This cannot work! Can it?”

  “According to my calculations, it does,” the Greek replied, “The core is wired to the chambers, and the reaction occurs simultaneously. The core reacted thermally, producing a brilliant fluorescent pulse. The chambers exploded inwards, in a perfect three hundred-sixty degree circle. This drove the core into an implosion, which produced an exponential chemical reaction: an inverse thermal wave hundreds of times more powerful than the combined explosive force.”

  93’s eyes widened and his mouth opened in amazement. He studied the diagram and slowly answered, “I have heard the Greeks were very advanced but, I had no idea they were this advanced!”

  “They are not.” 17 answered.

  93 swallowed and thought for a moment, his eyes as wide as a cat, his face was filled with admiration for the Greek and it was obvious. “What else have you worked on?” he asked. The Greek smiled and raised the charcoal in his outstretched hand. He let it drop to the deck.

  “What did it just do?” he asked the Chinese.

  “It fell to the floor.” replied 93.

  “Yes,” said 17, “But why?”

  My interest in this conversation was interrupted by 53, who was finally stirring. A few minutes later the morning meal of bread and hot porridge was lowered down to us. I did not notice it that first morning, but my rowing partner had set his internal clock by the workings of a galley and its rhythms of daily life. He always seemed to know what was going to happen next.

  Two hours later we were back at the oars. Gracchus put us to work as soon as he could. The order came to strike sail and he started us out on our first drill. Slowly at first but increasing as time went on. For nearly an hour he drilled us at cruising speed and just when we were getting tired, he ordered battle speed. The Hortator doubled the rhythm and the stroke went up. Again the lash rang out in the gallery as some of the weaker men had trouble keeping up the stroke or finding the rhythm.

  This punishment went on for fifteen minutes until my stomach was so tight it ached like a growing nausea that spread from the guts into the arms and legs.

  Just when I was beginning to doubt I could keep up the stroke and get the dreaded lash on my back, he called for a rest. The oars dropped as one and the men collapsed to the floor, coughing and gasping for breath.

  Rufrius went up the stairs to the deck and Gracchus just glared at us with that big, round eye of his. “You row like women!” he shouted. “You think that was a drill? That was just a little warm-up for your enjoyment.” He paced back on the catwalk and grabbed the lash from the nearest driver. He slapped his hand with it so hard, you might have expected him to wince in pain. Its snap was loud and effective in our ears but he never showed the slightest reaction if it hurt him.

  “In a few days we will join the fleet,” he said, “Any man who rows like that at the trials will be skinned alive!”

  He gave the whip back to the driver and ordered the buckets to be passed. As we were resting I had a chance to see what was going on up top. The gallery was lined with hatches which were covered with webbing and you could see and hear quite a bit by daylight.

  The sail
s were being raised and I spotted the Captain moving aft. My eyes followed him curiously as I was interested in his sailing methods. He gave personal commands to the seamen; no detail was too minor for him to notice. He inspected the riggings closely. Once the sails were up he moved aft to the helm.

  “Now,” I heard him say, “She is ready! Let the wind have her.”

  The helmsman turned to port but the Captain quickly frowned and took the wheel for himself, shallowing the turn. The ship heeled into the wind and took off over the sea.

  It was then that I realized what he was doing. He was using a very rare practice of sportsmen known as close-hauling. This way of running off of the wind with the sails running fore and aft increased speed and maneuverability. I had done it before but never imagined a warship could do it. No wonder he had to instruct his crew so closely!

  I do not imagine they had ever rigged for it before and supposed only men like me had. As far as I know, no warship before Antonia had achieved it. Most seamen did not even know about it. Antonia flew almost as if she had wings. I looked out of the nearest window at the sea and was astonished by the speed. I had never imagined any ship could move as fast as she was going, big or small.

  I looked back up at our Master who had removed his helmet, allowing the wind to fill his hair and cool his cheeks. A broad smile was on his face. He was loving it and I wished I could be up there with him. The voice of my comrade pulled me back to the depths below.

  “Look!” he said. I followed his gaze to the back of the gallery, where several officers and the driving crew were gathered in hushed conclave. I heard the sound of coins clattering.

  “They are wagering.” he said.

  “On what?” I asked.

  “Who ‘The Winner’ will be.” he answered.

  “You mean the speed trials?” I asked naively.

  “Do not be a fool,” he snapped and then softened, “When a galley puts to sea with a new batch of slaves, the officers and crew try to pick ‘The Winner’ from among them.” I looked at him puzzled, he smiled coldly.

  “The Winner’ is the term they use for the first of the slaves to die! Even now, they are sizing us up to figure out who is the weakest or the most headstrong. They might pick you, Little Roman!”

  I looked at them with a feeling of dread. Every so often they would look at a particular slave and then discuss his chances. It was all done with their own cruel sense of humor I suppose, because they laughed quite a bit as they made their choice.

  One slave in particular seemed to be their favorite, or at least they looked at him the most. He was a swarthy-looking man with stocky, powerful limbs. The number next to his oar was 127. He looked very strong and I could only guess they thought he would lose his temper sooner or later, or perhaps they just thought he would get fed up and snap, as galley slaves sometimes do.

  It is suicide of course.

  From my angle, he did not seem the type to me at all. He had the toughened look of the Northern provinces and they are a very durable, resilient people who have been giving the Romans trouble for generations. I would not have bet money on him as one who would crack. He had the look in his eye of some of the older slaves I have known, nothing fazes them at all!

  After we had rested for an hour Gracchus ordered us back to our places and sail was lowered again. This time he ordered us chained in place and the long, heavy strand of iron was run from the front of the gallery to the blocks where they were fastened with a heavy lock. The chain was threaded through the rings on our shackles and attached, every fourth row or so, through eyelets on the center rail. One of which was right beside me. It held the chain taught, just giving enough slack to row and no more.

  Once we were chained in the lancers went up top and the drill began once more, only much harder. The cruising drill was much shorter this time, lasting only fifteen minutes. Gracchus stood at the front with a cudgel in his hand, banging on the block for emphasis as he barked out orders and prompting us to apply ourselves.

  Then, he quite suddenly gave the order for battle speed and the drill increased as before. Just as the pain was returning to my stomach, he ordered attack speed. The drill increased again, with the motion of my head moving back and forth so swiftly, that I could not fix my eye upon anything. Now the lash rang out as it had never done before and I became aware of Gracchus moving up and down the catwalk, augmenting the drivers’ punishments with his cudgel.

  After what seemed like an eternity, (even though it could not have been more than a minute or so), he cried ramming speed and the Hortator barked it out over the sound of the oars. The drill was now so fast that all became a blur before my eyes. Throughout the drill Gracchus kept barking the same order at us, over and over:

  “Row with your ass! Not with your arms!”

  The pain in my stomach had spread to my limbs and turned into numbness. I have no idea how my body was keeping up with the drill but somehow, it did. My lungs began to burn as I saw glimpses of what was going on around me. Men began to falter and drop to the deck.

  The sound of the whip was constant. My mouth and nostrils began to ache from the dryness, as there was hardly time to admit a breath between strokes. The sweat on my palms made it hard to grip the oar and I nearly lost it several times. I lost all feeling in my fingers, pounding my palms into the oar and hanging on for dear life. It began to feel as if the oar was rowing me.

  After a lifetime of this punishment, Gracchus hollered “Rest!” and the entire company let go as one before the Hortator could repeat the command. I collapsed to the stall and bumped my head on the bench as I fell. The brand on my buttock, which had diminished to a constant ache, was now burning as flame. Gracchus moved back to the front where the Hortator had lowered himself from his stool to the deck, almost as out of breath as us.

  “Why is it,” snarled Gracchus, “That they always send me the worst crap in the Empire?” He swung his cudgel at the nearest slave, clipping him on the top of his head. “You row like game-fodder,” he declared, “I am sure the only reason they sent you to me is because the lions would not have you!” He leaned forward on the cudgel and roared.

  “The next man that falls out of the drill is going up top for the lancers to use as a target! I mean what I say, you bastards. So get me right now!”

  He moved up the stairs and the water bucket was passed among us. I gulped it down so hard it almost choked me. I had not yet dared to look at my hands, whose feeling was coming back. The stinging sensation told me I had blisters and I dreaded what that would mean under this treatment. I had spent a lifetime at oars, but never like this. It all seemed like insanity at the moment.

  I looked at my palms, where the large bags of water had appeared along the lines. 53 looked at them and shook his head.

  “You are sloughing,” he said, “I thought you knew how to row.”

  “Sloughing?” I asked, for the term was new to me.

  “You are favoring your palms, letting the hands do the work,” he answered, “You must pull with your legs, carrying the labor from your butt to the whole arm. You will never last the way you are doing it! Listen to the drill and pull with your ass. Pull into it! You pull with your butt.”

  I knew he was right. Anyone who spent time at sea learned that early on. In my effort to keep up, I had forgotten to adhere to the basics. I resolved never to let myself do it again. It does not pay to get creative at this kind of labor.

  The relief schedule was pushed up in order to get at least two drills per shift in the first day. As soon as the meal was finished the Primus group was sent below and Secundus took over. There was no talking in the bilge that night. As soon as the men hit the deck all were asleep, too tired to even get seasick. If we had been in a gale I do not think any would have stirred from their slumber.

  The next day was even tougher than the first. The blisters on my hands had popped in the first hour and the pain was excruciating for the rest of the day. I was not alone. Most of the slaves had the same affliction and t
here was nothing we could do but bear it. After the meal the ship was under sail once more and we finally got a rest.

  What happened that night was not an unusual occurrence on galleys but it proved to be the beginning of something pivotal in the events that would follow, although none of us knew it at the time.

  As my father had told me at the prison, these were not like other galleys in the fleet and the slaves were not the usual assortment of thieves, brigands and murderers. Like myself, many were once Romans of property. Some were political prisoners, others were just misfits, like the Greek and the Chinese. In all of his experience as a slave driver Gracchus had never worked with such an assortment of men before and he misjudged the effect that certain situations would have on us.

  It began six hours into our watch as two new sets of feet came down the gallery steps. They belonged to the forward and aft mates, Titus and Aelius. As they entered the air became rich with the aroma of scented perfume and, one of them, Aelius, was wearing a floral garland about his neck.

  Their manner was not strange to me. I had seen such casual flippancy in Rome many times at the baths and pleasure houses of the city. Here it seemed particularly out of place. Gracchus and Rufrius, who had been playing at dice, rose to their feet and saluted the newcomers. The mates placed their arms about each other and kissed each other, deeply, on the mouth.

  “Well, Aelius,” said Titus, “This was your idea. What do you like?”

  The other creature looked about the gallery, sizing up the slaves like meat at a market. I knew what they had come for. We all did and we resented it. Such behavior was not strange or objectionable in the real world, on the contrary, it was so commonplace as to be hardly worthy of note. But this was different somehow.

  Although I had no objection to those who preferred the intimate company of men, it had never appealed to me. In Rome I could rebuke such advances with impunity. Here the situation did not allow such luxury. The thought of being forced to serve as a mere instrument of sexual play filled me with contempt.